


At the Break of Dawn

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [16]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: 24/7, D/s, Foreplay, M/M, Master/Servant, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, PWP, Service Submission, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One must apply a little ingenuity when the order is to provide a lazy wake-up call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Break of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to "[The Grimaud Challenge](https://www.fanfiction.net/topic/100097/90535980/1/The-Grimaud-Challenge)" found in the Three Musketeers Fanfiction Challenges forum.

I was not sure if it was the flapping of the fabric or the sudden hit against my skin what roused me up.

It took me some breaths to notice where I was and, when I did it, I smiled. Of course, we were still in the dead of the night of a very hot night; my master got rid of his sweat drenched shirt and tossed it to the footboard, it was not his intention to hit me, he just wanted a little cool.

I rested my elbows on the bed, plopped my head into my hands and tried my best to peer into the darkness his recumbent form. He was dead to the world, which was good for someone with chronically restless sleep. He was there, lain on his side, in his most glorious nudity, muscles in rest, deep breath and strong arm over his face. I enjoyed the spectacle, well aware that maybe I was the most fortunate of men on this earth; such a view was not a gift for everyone.

His name was Olivier, but I never have called him that. I could never call my master by his Christian name; I know my place, which at the moment was at his feet, literal and metaphorically. I have served him thirty years, the best of my life, and I have never had any serious regrets; I had been his valet, his confident, his go-between and his occasional lover those long years and it seemed like we finally had reached a calm place in this adventure we call life: the small castle of Bragelonne. It was a secluded place, a quiet little piece of country, where no one outside my master’s confidence had ever set a foot. I liked Bragelonne; though I’m not sure he liked it as well.

Yesterday was a hard work day; we have been reviewing the new copse since the sun got up. My master had been putting the task off because his son had reached that point when the student made the most of the lessons and started putting a good fight to the teacher. Of course, not a word of his pride and joy upon this fact had ever left my master’s lips, but the gleam in his eyes as he disheveled Raoul’s hair in a playful way spoke volumes, if you know how to hear. But this week the boy was in a neighboring house, as a guest of a marquise and his wife, there was no pretext this time to avoid hard work.

We returned late and dirty from the copse, a fact that presented no trouble for none of us. His dinner was a good bowl of cold soup. I had none, but it was replaced by something better: My master instructed me to wake him up early, in a very special way. That’s the reason of my stay in his bed to prevent me from rousing him before time, which would spoil completely his fancy. My weight in the mattress the whole night should numb his ingrained reflex to wake up if I the door open or if he feels someone approaching him.

Morning was taking its time to arrive; I could sleep a little more…

Keeping in my mind the smiling image of my master, I tried to find a comfortable position to sleep.

~°~°~

The smell was the first thing to notice, the ripe smell of a man who worked under the sun, mixed with sawdust from the trees and the dust of the road. The temptation to draw that doublet to my face was almost overwhelming, but still endurable. There was still pending work.

“The work is almost done,” my master said the words as I went to my knees to help him with his boots.

There was times when I hate my job, like when I feel aroused at the most banal chores. How many times I found myself in my knees, my hands on his foot, ready to pull his shoes off? It should be thousands, hundreds of thousands of times on the same posture, in the same room, regarding the same old black boots and yet, there were days where his careless stance, his messy dark hair, his barely open shirt brew in my mind a delicious mixture of lusciousness and surrender. Those times, the temptation of offering myself would confuse my spirit to the brink of forgetting my place.

I set to the task at hand; there was a lot to lose if I fail to carry out my part of the deal. I would lose the chance to quietly lionize him while making his life easy, that was enough most of the days.

“Tomorrow, we will spend only half a workday there,” any person could believe my master was talking to himself, I know better: he was making his will known.

I felt how he reached the cup with his diner while I rolled down his hose and took away his breeches.

“I want to be up with the first light.”

I nodded, signaling that I understood that he wanted me to wake him up at the earliest moment possible. I put out the candles in the farthest corners of the room and opening the windows to make his rest easier before turning around to bid him good night.

“Grimaud, I want you to wake me up with your mouth,” my master said, without giving me a glance. “How do you plan to make it happen, if you left the room now?”

I must confess that there are days when my obedience was very handsomely rewarded.

~°~°~

It was not the first ray of light that woke me up, it was that chill one could feel when the day was at the brink of dawn. The last cold of the night cleared my head, and the task allotted to me became the only thing of importance. Service began, even before I cracked my eyes open.

There was no way to explain, but I could feel it every time. There is a distinct emotion where something was performed just for my master’s pleasure. It’s hard to describe, and I didn’t even try to do it for myself as I pull my clothes off my body. My clothes were a hindrance to provide good service; I couldn’t afford to keep them in my back if they were to graze my master’s skin and making him woke up to the wrong sensation.

The room was pitch-black, but I could see him clearly. He was on his side, both hands under his head, his hair was a heavy curtain over his features and I could reckon my movement didn't disturb his rest. I laid by his side, giving a few heartbeats to think of my good fortune and to muster all my wits to work for his pleasure. There was not always time to get drunk on the idea to please him.

I crawled down, slowly and constantly, noticing the fine hair that covered his strong thigh, feeling in my lips the warmth of his skin, the smell that was an effect of a hot night. Such an alluring bit of flesh, I tasted it with my lips and my tongue; I drew soft spirals down, fully aware of the texture, trying to be smooth, almost imperceptible, aiming to cajole my master to lay on his back, to grant me access to a spot where my talents would be better engaged.

But my master was never the most obliging of the men and, for all my troubles, I only managed to induce him to lay flat on his belly. I smiled, the first ray of sun traced the curve of his rear; those big muscles were superb, even in complete rest and I bowed my head to nip them, to kiss them, to capture with my tongue the condensed dew of his life perspired over his hot flesh. My master, whose nervous constitution always made him wide awake at the slightest touch, mumbled something into his pillow and stretched out and turned around a little, shying away from my strokes, reluctant to be brought to his day.

I retreated to the footboard, giving him space to brighten up, to extend arms and legs and to let the blood run. As soon as I found a crack where to sneak to continue my labor, I did it and kissed the soft part of his thighs, nuzzling his manly bit, caressing with my tongue the furrow where his legs met his crotch. My dedication was rewarded with a happy grunt and the ungainly invitation —conveyed with a couple of fingers— to give him satisfaction.

I was happy to indulge him and, as I bowed my head and passed my arm under his leg, I said to myself that that’s who one must begin a day, the devil may care of breakfast!


End file.
